It was that time of the night. When witches appear as angels and men boast of conquests on the pitch or in bed. McBride tipped back the whiskey, slid off the bar stool, and weaved his way to the door, squeezing past angels squeezed into dresses one or two sizes too small. He bid farewell to the bouncers and lurched into the humid night. A car slowed, it occupants hollered abuse, then sped away. A throaty voice enticed from the shadows. Two men stepped onto the pavement blocking his path. McBride clenched his fists and gladly stepped into the violence.
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.